


To Catch a Q

by SvengoolieCat



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, M/M, Q has a backbone, SPECTRE Fix-It, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-04
Updated: 2017-08-07
Packaged: 2018-12-10 22:57:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11701626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SvengoolieCat/pseuds/SvengoolieCat
Summary: When Bond came back from retirement he had a lot of amends to make. It will help if you’ve read "Of Cats and Mortgages" and "Pray You Now, Forget and Forgive." Consider this something of a continuance of that?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Not beta'ed, so all mistakes are my own.

 

 

Bond thought going back to work as 007 after a year of gallivanting with Dr. Swann would be as easy as putting on one of his suits and trademark smirk. After all, he was Bond, James Bond, ladies man and assassin extraordinaire, with the sort of sordid professional and personal life that was the stuff of B-rated Hollywood movies. For all his flaws, he got the job done and he did it with style.

Oh, boy did he miscalculate.

M was the consummate professional: chilly, distant, and so overly by-the-book that Bond itched to strangle the man with his own tie. For the first time in a decade, Bond would have to earn his bloody stripes. And until he could pass muster in terms of physical, medical, psychological, linguistic, and a whole host of other categories, the 007 designation remained inactive. For three weeks, Bond was essentially sent back to boot camp for physical training. He spent his mornings being yelled at by some crusty old army sergeant to _run faster, do more pushups, and shoot straighter dammit_. Afternoons were spent in a series of classrooms taking refresher seminars in everything from contemporary politics to world etiquette. They gave him homework.

Homework.

And then, as though he were a girl in finishing school, every afternoon from 1600 to 1700 hours he was required to attend tea in a salon. The catch? No English allowed. Mondays were French, Tuesdays were Mandarin, Wednesdays were Russian, Thursdays Spanish or Italian, and Fridays Arabic.

Bond never let himself get out of shape during his sabbatical, but his entire body felt like a bruise. His brain felt like it had been stuck in a blender and given a good pulsing.

If M was polite and distantly malicious, Moneypenny was a cool fury and barely gave Bond the time of day. Bond wasn’t entirely sure where all her animosity was coming from, but she watched him with dark eyes that promised murder and mayhem every time he attempted a joke or a flirt. Granted, his flirting was half-hearted at best when all he wanted to do was eat a handful of aspirin, lay down somewhere comfortable, and not get up for a week.

Tanner treated him with his usual aplomb. He even joined Bond during some of his afternoon language salon sessions and got him caught up on all the gossip he’d missed, as well as highlights from Manchester U’s last season. He even brought beer with him.

Bond couldn’t tell what Q thought about things. No one would talk to Bond about him except in the most general terms and the man himself never appeared.

Bond hadn’t seen him or heard from him since his return. The Quartermaster was a busy man, he was told every time he asked after the man. Bond wanted to beard the lion in his den, but Tanner apologetically told him that until his clearance was returned, Q-Branch and the Quartermaster himself remained off-limits. Q had taken time over the past year to upgrade his security protocols and had turned his lair into a version of Fort Knox, so all attempts at sneaking in were over before they began.

The man was a ghost.

Bond even tried to go to Q’s house. Within minutes he had agents escorting him away from the premises and he spent the night in a holding cell.

It happened three times before he gave up on that tactic.

[“Not going to fly, mate,” Tanner said during one of their salon meetings. His French was flawless. He poured smuggled Guinness into a tea cup, ignoring the dirty looks of the French instructor as he sipped the brew, little finger pointed primly. Tanner followed that up with a nibble from a cucumber sandwich and the instructor very deliberately turned her back on the both of them.

“I just wanted to check on him,” Bond said.

“He’s fine.” Tanner said. “But he’s been working flat-out for almost half a year. Every 00 who isn’t on mandatory down time or medical leave is out in the field, and we’ve currently got a baker’s dozen of filled designations, counting you. The trouble the Americans are having with their current political situation on top of our own Brexit fiasco is giving him fits of paranoia, and he’s been on the front lines defending our servers from at least three major hacking attempts.”

Bond ate a delicate mini-quiche and squashed his feelings.

_They had been friends once, hadn’t they? Busy or not, Q had never actively avoided him before._ Bond was trying to figure out a way to articulate these thoughts to Tanner without sounding like he was pining when Tanner finished his brew and snapped his fingers.

“Speaking of work,” Tanner said. “You’ve officially been cleared for active duty. You’ll need to fill out the paperwork and report to M for your assignment in the morning.”]

 

 

Bond was in M’s office for a briefing and it was the most fun Tuesday morning Mallory remembered having since assuming the mantle of M.  

M leaned back in his chair, his part over and just enjoyed the show. His Quartermaster was a devious bastard, who had timed everything perfectly just to put the agent on his back foot. He’d arrived at the meeting at the perfect juncture to provide Bond’s kit. M would bet money on Q having arrived on time and just swept in to make an entrance.

Q looked put together and ice-cool in his suit. His green eyes and hands were steady as he handed Bond his kit with a perfunctory explanation. M had seen this happen a thousand times with various agents, but never with Bond. From the beginning Mallory had wondered if they were sleeping together, but never managed to find out satisfactorily one way or another.

If they were, then Bond was a gigantic shit for running off with that blonde psychiatrist ( _psychiatrist_ , who thought that was a good idea?) and he deserved every bit of revenge Q exacted from him. If not, it wasn’t for lack of interest. Mallory remembered sometimes catching Q looking at Bond like he was chocolate cake, when Q was more painfully innocent and thought he was being subtle. Bond had been subtler about his interest, but still smoldered at the Quartermaster like a pro when he wanted something. Now the roles had flipped.

Q was icily professional, with the sharp green eyes and polite smile he reserved for underlings and green agents. Bond, however, was almost beaming at Q, becoming more puzzled as his charm offensive had all the effect of a wave breaking over a rock.

“Standard Walther PPK with palm-reader, radio, standard earwig, a recording device, and sunscreen.”

 “Sunscreen.” Bond picked it up, flipped the cap, sniffed at it.

“Yes.”

“Does it _do_ anything?”

“Prevents skin cancer, 007, and signs of aging from sun damage.” Q’s smile looked bland on the surface but even Mallory detected the edge of malice wrapped in honeyed tones of concern.

Bond just blinked at Q. It took all Mallory’s self-control not to chortle.

“So, no poison? Or explosives? It’s just sunscreen?”

Green eyes sparked. “I don’t suggest eating it. But if you slather it on your enemy, know that you may well be providing the skincare needed to avoid melanoma. And that’s your kit.”

Q closed the kit and held it out to Bond. Bond took it numbly.

“Moneypenny has your documents,” M said. “Have a good flight to Jamaica.”

“Do try to return the equipment in one piece,” Q said. Q smoothly turned just enough to face M and place Bond at his side and no longer in his attention. “I believe you wanted to see me about the prototypes for the new surveillance bugs?”

James Bond, speechless and thoroughly perturbed, nodded and left.

M waited until his meeting with Q had concluded and Quartermaster had stalked out as quietly as one of his cats before he emerged from his office. He leaned in his doorway, hands in his pockets. Moneypenny had a hand pressed over her eyes.

“That,” M said, “was fun as hell.”

The world’s deadliest PA guffawed. “The look on Bond’s face. What did Q do to him?”

“I’m not sure, exactly, but I think Q called Bond old and possibly diseased. But he said it so _nicely_.”

“Oh, my God.”

“Q’s going to have to actually talk to him sometime,” Mallory said. “Bond didn’t come back for us. Not solely. If he did, he’d have started kicking against this ridiculous training regimen weeks ago instead of going along with it, meek as a lamb. He came back for Q.”

Moneypenny grimaced. “Then we better hope that Bond knows how to grovel pretty enough. Q’s…pricklier than he used to be. And harder. He’ll talk to Bond when he’s decided about him. And then shit will really hit the fan.”

“Can’t say it’s ever boring around here,” Mallory said.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bond swaggered into Q-Branch like he owned the place. Impeccable suit and tie, shoes shined with military precision, knuckles freshly wrapped. A wave of sotto voce hissing followed him as he made his way up to Q’s desk. Minions popped up like over-caffeinated, bespectacled meerkats to watch the agent’s progress. 
> 
> “Banter and unresolved sexual tension from Bond and Q is better than theatre on the West End,” one minion said, sighing dreamily. “I missed this show while he was gone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the last chapter that takes place during the end of Pray You Now. After this, it's sailing in new, shark infested waters!

 

 

Bond swaggered into Q-Branch like he owned the place. Impeccable suit and tie, shoes shined with military precision, knuckles freshly wrapped. A wave of _sotto voce_ hissing followed him as he made his way up to Q’s desk. Minions popped up like over-caffeinated, bespectacled meerkats to watch the agent’s progress.

“Banter and unresolved sexual tension from Bond and Q is better than theatre on the West End,” one minion said, sighing dreamily. “I missed this show while he was gone.”

“Has he been to Medical already?” Minion #2. “He looks like he’s been to Medical.”

“Shut up or we’re going to miss it.” Minion #1.

“Miss what?” Minion #3.

“ _SHHH_.”

Q waited until Bond was almost to the desk to look up from the watch he was tinkering with. He was wearing jeweler’s goggles while he fussed with some broken gears.

“Ah, 007,” he said. Quick eyes skimmed over the agent, magnified by the lenses. Satisfied the agent was in one piece, he returned to his task.

“Q,” Bond said. He set a slim black case on a clear part of Q’s desk, and rocked back into a parade rest.

Q replaced a gear in the watch, clicked the back on, and checked to see if it was working again. “Yes, thank you Bond. I’ll check it in momentarily.”

“I’ll wait,” said Bond.

“Hardly necessary,” Q said.

“All the same.”

“Do you think he brought back all his equipment?” asked Minion #2.

“Is there a venomous spider in there?” Q asked Bond.

“That happened once, and it wasn’t even in my equipment. If anyone will bring you deadly fauna, it’ll be 003. Isn’t he out in the jungle somewhere?”

Q put down the watch and the goggles and opened the case that Bond helpfully handed to him. And froze.

He inspected the gun, the radio, the earwig (and the spare), the one unused surveillance bug, and half a bottle of sunscreen.

“You brought it all back,” Q said, a little numbly. “There isn’t even a scratch on any of it.” He disassembled the Walther almost absentmindedly, the actions as smooth and practiced as an agent’s. Bond watched those capable hands deconstruct the gun and examine the pieces. So did the Minions.

“Oh my God,” breathed Minion #3. “I think he’s courting the Quartermaster.”

“Lucky boy,” said Minion #2.

“Which one?” said Minion #3

“Does it matter?” Minion #2 swigged cold tea from her mug. “They’re hot individually, and really hot together.”

“In any case, bringing back equipment is a good place to start,” said Minion #1. She pulled out her phone and started texting. “I’m going to have to put some money in the pool, now.”

“Don’t you have work to do?” Q snapped, arching an eyebrow at his Minions.

“Yes,” Minion #3 said dreamily. “But this is more fun.”

However, Minions #1 and #2 possessed more survival instincts than #3, and as soon as Q looked over they disappeared like smoke on the wind.

“Well then,” Q said. “I’m sure you’ll bring such enthusiasm to cleaning the server room. Off you pop.”

Minion #3 abruptly realized he was alone, swore, and trudged away with slumped shoulders.

Q reassembled the gun, placed it back in the case and clicked it shut. When he finally looked up at Bond, he examined the agent as minutely as he had the gun. Bond held still under that assessing gaze, before he removed a package from his coat overcoat pocket.

“I know you prefer tea, but Jamaica is known for excellent coffee,” he said. He left off that he’d spent an hour in a pricy coffee shop, sniffing different blends of coffee and trying samples until he found one that had a smooth, dark chocolate finish. He knew when Q drank coffee he preferred the good stuff, and this was almost as good as it got.

He put the bag of coffee on the desk as well.

“Are they right?” Q asked quietly.

“Who?”

“The minions. Are you courting me, or just trying to get back into my good graces?”

This was the first time Bond had seen anything approaching the softer Q that had existed before Spectre. The one that occasionally had seemed a little more fragile, before the armor clicked back into place and he became The Quartermaster again, a force as implacable as any other Bond had ever encountered. Q was looking at his gift, with something a little like melancholy.

“Can it be both?”

The walls went back up. Q straightened, and graced Bond with a professional smile that he leveled at everyone.

“Lovely to see you, as always 007. Thank you for your returns and the coffee.”

Well, it was a start, Bond thought. He smiled tightly at Q and turned to leave. He was halfway up the garage when Q’s voice rang out: “I have Saturday off.”

Bond kept walking but he turned around briefly. “What a coincidence, so do I.”

Saturday night was Q’s relax and unwind night, which he often did with his cat, a pizza, and some cheesy science fiction. Bond used to go over sometimes for company and to curl up on one end of the sofa with beer and the cat and catch up on missed episodes of Doctor Who. (Which, honestly, he didn’t care much about, but the boffin had Very Strong Opinions on the matter and that was funny as hell.)

He’d missed it, since he’d been away.

What he didn’t expect on Saturday when he arrived was to be practically dared by Q to seduce him properly, and then to spend the evening in the company of London’s current complement of grounded double-ohs and Moneypenny. They ranged around Q’s living room like overprotective siblings guarding their younger brother’s virtue and gave Bond the stink eye all night. If Q was aware of the undercurrent of lightly murderous intent, he gave no appearance of it while he melted into his overstuffed papasan.

 

(after the gathering)

Q wasn’t in the mood for mercy or surrender. After the Saturday night get-together, he kicked Bond out with the rest of his agents. Only Moneypenny remained behind, and Q figured he was going to get a talking-to.

The man he was before Bond had left probably would have swooned if Bond turned the full wattage of his charm on him. The only thing that kept him out of trouble where Bond was concerned was the fact that he knew very well there was always an ulterior motive. It made dealing with James Bond versus 007 difficult to discern. James Bond found him attractive in an idle sort of way, but 007 saw him as a malleable partner in crime who gave him explosive toys. Q rather thought he deserved more than either of those options.

Q wandered back through the living room, cleaning up the plates and beer bottles. Moneypenny was in the kitchen, storing his leftovers and eating a brownie over the sink. Q separated his trash and recyclables.

Bond was different since he came back. He watched Q with an open sort of wistfulness, but Q stood by his guns—he wasn’t going to be the rebound after the beautiful Dr. Swann.

“Q,” Moneypenny said. She sounded like she wanted to say more but wasn’t sure how to proceed.

“I know,” he said. “Playing with fire.”

She smiled, and finished the brownie. “I was going to say to give him hell.”

Q barked a laugh. “That’s a given.”


End file.
